TRIP REPORT - Part One

Monday, Sept. 15, 2003 - 9:47 a.m.

TRIP REPORT PART ONE -- Harvest Moon 2003

Paul had invited me to come visit him and see his family, but he'd invited me to do that about three months ago; I think we were both surprised when some dates finally became available for me to actually make the trip. I didn't want to fly, so I decided to take the Greyhound Bus instead, because I had never been that far east before.

The trip itself would take place from Sunday, September 7th, 2003 to Thursday, September 11th. I thought about the anniversary that was taking place on Thursday, but then I realized that it was probably safe to take the journey home on that day, and, besides, in a way I think it would be patriotic to actually be using public transit on that day of all days, as a way to scoff at the terrorism. My actual time in Utah would be from Monday September 8th to Wednesday September 10th.

For the week before the trip, I was practicing my packing. I was only taking two pieces of luggage -- my biggest black purse, and a backpack with wheels and a handle -- but those two things would have to contain my clothes, plus the items I wanted to bring to Utah for Paul to see. I brought a recipe book, a small album full of pictures from when I was a child, and the diary my mother kept for the first few years of my life. I wish I had more room, but that's what I had room for, so that's what I brought.

For clothing, I brought three pairs of pants, an extra pair of shoes, a pair of pajamas, four shirts, a sweat jacket, and a windbreaker. Those went into the backpack, along with my hair dryer and a travel pillow. And in addition to the usual stuff that lives in my big black purse, I put my makeup, my shampoo bottle, my CD player, some CDs, two disposable cameras, and my stuffed bunny rabbit that I always bring when I travel. My bunny rabbit's name is Chi-Chi, because she was purchased in Chico, California. That bunny has been with me everywhere I have travelled, and in fact, the trip to Utah put her current travel tally at just over ten thousand miles. (sounds like a car, doesn't it? :) )

If this trip had been for a longer time, somehow I think it would have been easier to pack.

At last, it became Sunday afternoon, and John drove me over to the Greyhound bus depot, and waited in the terminal to see me get on to the bus. The bus was one of the new great big luxury liners, with a lot of room. The first bus I got on would be the one I would take from San Francisco to Salt Lake City. Then I would transfer to another bus in Salt Lake City and go on up to Ogden, where Paul said he would be waiting.

When I got on board, I discovered that the backpack was too large to fit into the overhead compartment, so that meant I had to try and put it under the seat. It fit under there, but just barely. I carried my purse in my lap. The bus number was 6423, and my driver was probably younger than I was, with red hair and freckles.

The bus pulled out of the station, and the first stop was Oakland, across the Bay Bridge. Nobody was sitting next to me, because not a lot of people were travelling that day, so I had room to stretch out. I remember looking back over my shoulder at the fog that was just sitting offshore, and trying to take a picture through the bus window.

As evening fell, there was a wonderful sunset, with the clouds turning different shades of pink and purple and scarlet and peach, and the contrast against the dark fields and hills made the sky even more starkly beautiful. We arrived in Sacramento between 7:30 and 8:00 at night. The downtown area of Sacramento has undergone major renovation since the last time I was there, in the late 80s, but the bus station itself is still in the same place, and looks almost exactly like it did the last time I saw it some fifteen years ago.

Our stop in Sacramento lasted thirty minutes, where we changed drivers. The driver was an older bald gentleman with a moustache. When I got back on the bus after going into the station for a break, the driver looked at me and said "You're not one of those troublemakers, are you?" and I smiled and said "Not yet -- but the night is young," which made him laugh.

Our next destination was a non-stop drive to Reno. The evening was beautiful, and the journey up into the Sierra Nevada mountains was really nice, because it had been so long since I'd been up this way. We arrived in Reno at eleven pm late Sunday night, and while I was there, I telephoned Paul to let him know I was on my way, and was horrified to find that the cost for a single minute of conversation from a pay telephone was over two dollars. Because it was late, and I knew John had to work the next morning, I didn't call him. Before I left, I had asked him to bring the headset for the cordless telephone into the bedroom so he could answer it easily, but he said he didn't want to do that and have my friends calling for me at all hours of the night and waking him up. This made sense, so I figured I would wait and call him from Utah when I arrived.

The drivers changed again, and this time, our driver was a silver-haired fellow who very enthusiastically informed us that if he caught anybody smoking in the bathroom of the bus, they would be cast out to die in the desert, so everybody who needed a cancer break better darn well wait until the scheduled stops or else they would be really sorry. He was our driver from Reno to Salt Lake City -- all the way across Nevada.

The night was peaceful and the towns we passed through each had personalities of their own. I especially enjoyed Winnemucca, because the road signs were all old fashioned, the casinos were not gigantic and garish, and the restaurant signs almost all had dancing food cartoons on them. And Battle Mountain, Nevada was interesting, too. It had once been voted the 'Armpit of America' by a major newspaper, so their unofficial motto for tourists has become 'Make Battle Mountain Your Pit Stop!'

This part of the journey completely filled me with life, and made me realize how amazing this world is. Let me see if I can explain...

We spend our lives looking around for a place to belong in this world, and to fit in, and to be comfortable. One of the things we do is settle down somewhere and start a life. We get happy with where we are, and unless something drastic happens, we usually stay put. I am in fact one of those people who is pretty happy with what my life is like today.

But until I saw the sunrise in Eastern Nevada early that Monday morning, I honestly had no idea how big our world really is.

The sun came up about an hour before we reached the border between Nevada and Utah, and the light shone up over the mountains and into the Great Basin. The scale of the size of this place cannot be measured with words. You have to see it to understand it.

I thought I had my fill of this bus ride, and had decided I would never do something like this again -- and then the sun rose, and I saw some of the most drastic and stark and beautiful scenery I have ever seen in my life, and I decided that every mile of this journey had been worth being able to see this sunrise, in Wendover, Nevada. The sheer scale and majesty of this area has imprinted on me like nothing else has in a long time.

Then we crossed the border into Utah. I looked at my watch. It was 7:30 in the morning. Only four more hours to go. Then the bus driver made an announcement which nearly made me cry with happiness -- he reminded us to set our watches ahead one hour, because we just crossed into the Mountain time zone. In an instant, my arrival time went from four hours to three hours.

The last part of the journey to Salt Lake City was the most stunning to me -- I got to see the legendary Bonneville Salt Flats. I had wondered if the legend was true -- could you really see the curvature of the earth from here, because it was so utterly and completely flat and unadorned?

Yes. And when that happened, I spent a long time thinking about the fact that we're all part of something so much bigger than ourselves, and that so many people forget that.

Soon, the scenery changed again, becoming mountainous again, and civilization loomed in the form of Salt Lake City, Utah. Seeing the Great Salt Lake also put things into a physical perspective for me; other than the Pacific Ocean, I'd not seen another body of water that was so beautiful. The water was not blue, but sort of an off white, because it's got like, five or six times as much salt in the water as is in the ocean.

In the Greyhound Depot in Salt Lake City, something happened. I was standing in the line after I got off of the Salt Lake City bus, waiting to transfer to the bus to Ogden, and noticed the table where security checks were taking place. A small sign had a list of things that were forbidden on the bus -- and one of those items was scissors.

My heart sank. I had scissors in my backpack. Not just any scissors, but the scissors that were part of the housewarming items that my parents bought for me when I moved out. These scissors are a total of two inches long, with the handles included, and were once part of my first sewing kit. I had owned these scissors half my life, and was probably going to lose them. Both of my parents are dead now, and these scissors were a reminder of them, and of the year I moved away from home. Before the security guard found them, I figured I should try and do the right thing -- so I dug them out and surrendered them.

I had been tired and nervous about finally meeting Paul; I was now officially awake for more than twenty-four hours; I was covered in road grime, and I was hungry because I forgot to bring any food with me -- and the incident with these scissors had been the straw that broke the camel's back. I began to cry.

"I didn't know you couldn't have scissors," I said. "I need scissors for medical reasons; but I can buy another pair if I have to." and by now I was getting a little upset because I knew I was about to lose them. "I'm sorry I'm crying, I sure don't mean to make you feel bad and I know this is just the job you have to do, but my parents gave me these and I've owned them for nearly twenty years, and I just -- I just have a hard time giving these up."

"I'm sorry," said the guard, who was probably not more than about twenty-one. "I wish there was something I could do. Is there any luggage that's being checked? Can you put it in there?"

"No. All I have is my purse and backpack, and they're both coming on to the bus with me."

"Oh gee," said the guard. "I'm so sorry." And if I'm not mistaken, I think I saw him with tears in his eyes as well.

The boarding call sounded, and I finally had to turn and leave. Several people in line with me asked if I was going to be okay. "It's a little thing but a big thing," I said, and I assured them I would be fine, even though I felt the exact opposite. I finally composed myself, dried my eyes, and wished I had a cool washcloth right then and there -- and that's when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

It was the guard.

He'd finished inspecting everybody's carry-ons and he'd come over to see me. "Ma'am? I'm going to hand your scissors to the bus driver and he'll carry them in his pocket and give them back to you when you get to Ogden, okay?"

And of course, I began to cry again. "Thank you," I said. "You have no idea what this means to me." The guard smiled, and stepped through the door a few people ahead of me, and I saw him in conference with the bus driver.

When the driver took my ticket, the guard was still standing out there. "Here's the lady who owns the scissors," said the guard.

The driver looked at me with an expression on his face that I thought was contempt directed at me, but then he spoke, and I realized I was not who he was upset at. He was merely exasperated with the ridiculousness of some of the rules and regulations he had to deal with on a daily basis. The driver reached into his pocket, handed the scissors back to the guard, and in a fakely stern tone of voice, he said to the guard, "I order you to take these scissors and deploy them as far down as you can into this woman's backpack." I opened my pack, the guard put them in, I zipped it closed, and that was that. I handed the guard a business card with my web address on it, and thanked him again, and said that in a few days, he could read about his heroism.

The trip to Ogden was the longest half-hour of the whole eight hundred miles.

Once again, I got to see the Great Salt Lake; I was spellbound by its beauty.

The Ogden Greyhound station came into view, and I pulled out a small mirror and looked at myself. Oh dear. It was bad. I smelled funny, and I looked just exactly like somebody who had been eight hundred miles on a bus. There was nothing I could do about it now, though.

We pulled in, and I got off of the bus.

Paul wasn't there. I had arrived on time. 11:40 Monday morning.

I dug around and found enough change to make a telephone call. It was fun to only have to dial seven digits this time.

"Paul!" I screamed when he answered. "I'm here! In Ogden! Where ARE you?!"

"Ogden?!" he shouted back. "Oh, no! I'm in Salt Lake! I thought I was supposed to pick you up THERE!"

Then my peripheral vision went away. Suddenly there was nothing on the face of the earth except my hand around the telephone, and Paul's voice on the other end. I thought I was going to be sick.

"Aughghgh!" I said.

Then Paul said "Brin. Take a deep breath. I'm kidding. I'll be there in like, three minutes."

"I'm gonna get you for this, Paul, you know that, don't you?"

"Yes, I guess I do."

We said goodbye, and I went outside to wait for him. It had rained slightly a little earlier in the day; my hair had malfunctioned to the point of my giving up and not worrying about it anymore, and I had been wearing these same clothes for more than a day. But still, I felt happy to be there, and was looking forward to meeting my friend.

A minute later, a white car pulled into the parking lot. It was Paul. At least I thought it was -- it was somebody who reminded me of Paul but who looked only vaguely like the images I've seen of him. So just to make sure, I waved -- and when the person behind the wheel smiled and waved back, I knew my friend had found me.

He parked, and got out of the car, and we walked to each other. The first thing I said to P@ul Schu!tz in person was, "I have bad news, dude! I smell worse than I look! Watch out if you hug me!" -- but he hugged me anyway.

He popped the trunk, took my backpack from me, and hoisted it into the back of the car -- then I handed him a dollar. As a joke at the suggestion of my friend Cheri, I'd been planning to tip him just to see how he would react, and -- well, let's just say he reacted. I got my dollar back, plus so very much more. We settled into the car, and just sort of marveled at the fact that I had finally arrived, and that we were there, together, and that this was really happening.

It had been rough year for me. I felt as if the journey to see Paul was something that needed to be done, because in the springtime I had lost a lot of trust for people, because somebody I trusted had hurt me. But this visit was the conclusion of several months of planning and anticipation, and I just needed to know that I could trust Paul, and enjoy my visit, and find a happy ending. And that's exactly what happened.

The first place we drove was over to the Red Roof Inn, to see if we could get me checked in. Unfortunately, the check in was not until three in the afternoon, and at the time, it was just about twelve-thirty. I was on about hour thirty with no sleep to speak of, and I smelled like each and every one of those eight hundred miles -- so when Paul very graciously said I could come rest and clean up at his home, that sounded like heaven.

I kept marvelling at the stark and amazing scenery. We have scenery here in San Francisco, make no mistake about that -- but the mountains in Utah are like nothing I've ever seen before in my life. They are mostly barren and craggy, and what forestation is there has really had to fight to be where it is. Those trees have earned the right to be there. It's easy to imagine that this is in fact some of the oldest land on the continent, and think about the fact that dinosaurs used to stroll around where you're walking right then and there. The roads were in good repair, too, which is something California has had a problem with every since I can remember.

We arrived at Paul's house and went in. It's a shoes-off household, which means the carpeting is thick and immaculate, and I was only too happy to take off my sneakers after more than a day of having them on. Paul showed me where the upstairs shower was, said to help myself to whatever I needed, gave me two towels and a washcloth, and left me to clean up. I was extremely grateful. At one point, he stood outside the bathroom door and said "I'm going to fix you something to eat, okay?" and of course I said yes.

Fifteen minutes later, I got back down the stairs, wearing clean clothes, with my hair freshly washed and dried, and pinned back. "Hey, I have a favor to ask you," I said to Paul when I got down to the kitchen."Can you pretend you didn't see me before I got cleaned up?" And he laughed and said "What the hell ever... Come here and eat, you."

I sat in one of the black bar chairs at his kitchen counter, and he put food in front of me for the first time. There was a small bowl of oatmeal, sweetened with Splenda, with a big dollop of raspberry preserves on top; and an egg that had been whipped, cooked, and folded in half with some cream cheese in the middle, and a sprinkle of cheese over the top. It was simple and beautiful, and exactly what I needed. He also gave me a children's chewable vitamin, and a calcium supplement.

We visited through the afternoon; he showed me a significant portion of his Erasure collection -- which is huge -- but finally at about two thirty, I began to get tired. Paul drove me back over to the Red Roof Inn, and this time the check-in went through. He carried my things up to the room and took a look around to make sure the accomodations were all right. Then he gave me one more hug, and told me to get some sleep, that he would be back for me later in the evening, and to please call him the moment I woke up.

There were two queen beds in the room; I unpacked and spread my things out on one bed, and slept in the other one. I changed into my pajamas, found KSL on the clock radio so the talk radio voices would lull me, drew the drapes closed, and laid down gratefully, and slept, and slept.

At seven thirty, I woke up. I called Paul, and he said he'd be over shortly. So I got up, showered again, and when I dressed, I chose the outfit that I wore to the Erasure concert back in March: a long sleeved black pullover shirt, and my stonewashed jeans and black flats. I also decided to put on makeup, which in fact, I usually do not wear. I wanted Paul to see what 'dressed up' looked like at least once.

Paul showed up to collect me, and when he walked in, he hugged me and said he was glad I finally looked and smelled good. "Thanks a lot," I said.

We went back over to his home. He'd set up the grill on his kitchen counter; I sat in the bar chair and watched him work. Dinner was salmon steaks, salad with grape tomatoes, and vegetables in a cheese sauce -- all extremely delicious and beautifully prepared. I drank a lot of water with my meal; in fact I had been drinking a lot of water in general, due to my trying to adjust to the high desert weather.

I hadn't had fish in a long time-- and certainly never like this. Usually my fish food, so to speak, comes out of a yellow package, and is coated with bread crumbs. Paul's dinner on the other hand, was light years different.

At last, though, dinner was over, and he drove me back over to my room. Before we went there, he took me for a brief drive, and showed me something unusual -- he'd had a bad car accident some years back, and he drove me past the place where it happened. While we were stopped looking at it, a police car pulled up and scared the shit out of Paul. The officer asked if everything was okay, and Paul just simply dropped back and punted and told the truth: "I drove through this showroom window about twelve years ago, and I was showing her where it happened." -- which oddly enough, seemed to satisfy the officer, and he smiled and drove off. We got back to the room. We sat there and spoke until well after midnight, but we finally finished our visit for the day just before one in the morning. I was glad to be there, and before I went to sleep, I looked out the window at the beautiful night, and I gave thanks for my safe journey, for the good day, for the great meal, and for my friendship with Paul.

TOMORROW: PART TWO

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